


a hive walking

by sadbirdchild, truehumandisaster



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gen, everyone works in a middle school, we have fun here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:14:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24957436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadbirdchild/pseuds/sadbirdchild, https://archiveofourown.org/users/truehumandisaster/pseuds/truehumandisaster
Summary: Scully and Mulder are teachers at J. Edgar Hoover Middle School and get into more trouble than they bargain for.
Relationships: Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8





	a hive walking

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from "a field of onions: brown study" by vanessa angelica villarreal  
> chapter titles are just random conspiracies that may or may not have to do with the plot

Krychek paces back and forth, blocking the entrance to the school gym. There is a mutter to his breath, something dark and annoyed, and every time a sound comes from down the hall, he pauses, looking up. It is far too late in the school for anyone to be around; he knows this, of course he knows this. It’s why he’s there in the first place. And just as he is about to give up, just as he is about to curse the day he ever agreed to help Fox Fucking Mulder, the very man Krychek wants to curse makes his appearance. 

Mulder is ruffled. His hair is tousled and his clothes wrinkled, and a strange smell is coming from him. Is he  _ wet _ ? Krychek stops pacing. It is not concern on Krychek’s face; it is a cruel kind of curiosity, something clinical and hungry. 

“Look, Mulder,” he begins, licking his lips. “You can’t keep me--” 

“Shut up, you stupid asshat,” Mulder growls, ramming his shoulder into Krychek as he passes through to the gym. He makes a face of disgust like he can’t stand the sight of Krychek -- and, hell, he probably can’t. The feeling is more than mutual, and Krychek rolls his eyes in response. “Now, are you going to tell me what I want to know, or did I waste the rest of my night too?” 

“Why should I help you?” Krychek puffs out his chest. “You never gave me a reason.” 

Mulder stares at him a moment, eyes narrowing. “Just tell me what you know.” 

“I overheard the Vice Principal, that’s all,” Krychek says. There is a long pause between the two of them. Mulder curls his hand into a fist, and Krychek carries the absolute certainty that Mulder is about to turn it onto him. He flinches and decides it is very much in his best interest to continue. “He was saying that no one would put together what happened. That you’ll never figure it out on your own.”

For the first time that night, and for the time  _ ever _ at Krychek, Mulder smiles. 

“I’m not on my own anymore, Krychek.” 

* * *

It’s nearing midnight when Mulder’s ancient Ford pulls into her driveway. Sometimes, Scully wonders if he sleeps at all. How does one maintain control over a class of preteens on less than nine hours of sleep? She voices her concern as she climbs into the passenger seat of his car, but he just smiles, tired and knowing. He hums in acknowledgment and throws the car into reverse.

It’s quiet as they peel out of her neighborhood, headed back toward the school. She lives closer to their workplace than he does: her small condo is only a ten minute drive from J. Edgar Hoover Middle School, while his tiny apartment is at least half an hour -- and that’s when  _ he’s _ behind the wheel. 

They’re nearing campus when he finally speaks up. 

“Listen, Scully,” he starts, and she knows how this goes. He’ll make some bold claim, tell her the Principal has been caught up in some government plot, that Krycek has given him a USB with the proof but he’s left it in the boys’ bathroom near the teachers’ lounge. It always seems to go the same way. 

“I set up a motion sensor,” Mulder continues. “And I know you said I couldn’t set one up in your classroom, but I’ve been getting consistent readings around 3:00 AM for the past two weeks.” He turns the headlights off as they pull into the student drop off area. “If you let me, I’m sure the results would be the same. And your classroom has the interior door, the one in the back, if you’d just  _ let me _ \--”

She cuts him off there, “If I’d let you  _ what _ , Mulder?” Scully looks at him. His hair is ruffled, and his clothes are the same ones he was wearing yesterday. Is he  _ damp _ ? She wonders how he gets any grading done when all he does is run around like this. “Put a motion sensor camera in my seventh grade science room?” She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “How would that look, if anyone found out?”

He ignores her. “Scully, I think that this new group of students --” He rushes on as she opens her mouth to cut him off. “Hear me out!  _ Sixteen _ new students in just the seventh grade?” They both know it’s weird. All the teachers know it’s weird. “And they’re all  _ duplicates _ \-- twins, triplets, a set of quadruplets? What is this, IVF study moving to ‘the Hoove’? Something is up, and I know if we just --”

She manages to cut him off again, “Mulder, I know it’s difficult for you, but Skinner himself said that this is a good thing. Sixteen students in seventh grade, but that’s only a dozen or so families. And they aren’t from  _ nowhere _ . Atlantic Charter was shut down at the end of last year because of that oil spill.”

“And that oil spill wasn’t suspicious?” He raises his voice, just slightly, which earns an exasperated sigh from Scully. “An oil spill shouldn't shut down an entire school, Scully.”

She is already done talking about the oil spill. “Regardless,” she continues, meeting his eyes. “An oil spill, new students, Krycek acting strangely, even the Principal being out -- Mulder, none of this is cause for installing motion sensors in a middle school classroom.” He’s already got something else to say, but she gives him one of her looks, and he shuts his mouth. It lasts only a moment. 

“It’s been two weeks, Scully,” Mulder finally says, one last attempt. “Every night at the same time.”

“It could be custodians. It could be an error, it could be students. No matter what it is, I doubt it gives you reasonable cause to break into our workplace in the middle of the night.”

“Gives  _ us _ reasonable cause,” Mulder amends faintly, and Scully can already feel herself giving in. 

He steps out of his car, and with a muttered curse or two directed at the other teacher, she follows. 

* * *

The school, at night, is haunting. 

Scully does not believe in ghosts. She has never believed in ghosts, not even when she was a girl, not even when she heard footsteps in her grandmother’s house after the woman had passed away or caught a glimpse of white after Melissa’s funeral. She very firmly does not believe in ghosts, and she tells Mulder this as they walk -- once, twice, and again for good measure. That does not change the fact that J. Edgar Hoover Middle School was never meant to be seen at night; it is haunting, whether there are ghosts or not. 

Most of the lights are off, and their footsteps echo over the lockers, even as they both try to keep their movements quiet. The hallways seem stretched out and disorientating. All around them, there is nothing, and it is the sort of nothing that presses against your skin, that reminds you of your loneliness. They both shiver, stepping nearer to one another. 

“You’re sure no one’s here?” Scully asks. 

“I was here earlier,” Mulder whispers back, tilting his head towards her. “Last one out the door was Krychek.”

Scully always tells her students to question things, to ask why things work or how they work and then to try to figure it out themselves. She encourages them to come to her after class ends, to bring the challenging questions so that they might work through them together. It is the basis of her teaching. She is glad none of her students are here now, to hear her thoughts that maybe it was better  _ not _ to know some things. Like why your fellow teacher has already been in the school that night or why he was spying on the gym coach. She does not want to know what plot Krychek has given him apparent proof to or what bargain Mulder made to get the information. She simply does not want to know. It is better not to know. 

But, God, she’ll find out sooner or later anyways, won’t she? 

They arrive at Mulder’s classroom first. He has a dozen history projects displayed proudly on his door, each one slightly overlaid onto the next. It is a too-bright collage of student handwriting and mismatched colors, but she softens when she sees it. They are students that never get their work displayed, their final grades cleverly hidden on the projects. And they are good projects, in their own ways, in ways that few teachers would notice. 

Mulder unlocks the room quickly and practically shoves her inside before closing the door behind them. 

His classroom is a louder projection of himself. There is hardly a blank space left on any of the walls. More student posters line the inside, but also, there are posters that Mulder has bought. Behind his desk, a UFO hangs over a group of trees on a poster with the words,  _ I want to believe _ , printed boldly beneath them. There are newspaper clippings that make the claims of ancient astronaut theorists and warn against mainstream historical theories. It is amazing he has been allowed to keep them up, through parent conferences and performance reviews. Despite his eccentricities, his classroom has some of the highest test scores. She knows it keeps him safe.

For now. 

“Are you going to tell me your theory?” she asks. 

“You wouldn’t like my answer.” 

Mulder moves toward the back of the room, dragging a chair with him. He stops in front of the office that conjoins their classrooms, fumbling with his keys. He jumps back when he unlocks it and throws the door open, but there is nothing in the office. She doesn’t miss the triumph that flickers across his face, like he was expecting this. The room is silent, with only a faint humming coming from somewhere. She has never heard the noise before. It sounds suspiciously mechanical. 

Mulder drags the chair inside the office. She understands what he is doing when he climbs on top of it, and with a sigh, she moves forward, her hand hovering over his back to keep him steady. It takes him a moment to find his balance, to make sure the wheels are not going to slide out from under him, and she steps back only when she is certain he will not fall. 

“Tell me you didn’t hide it in the vent,” she groans. 

“You wouldn’t like my answer,” he repeats with a grin. 

The office itself is a small room, squeezed between their classrooms, it holds one desk with an ancient computer and a printer that’s nearly always out of toner, thanks to Mulder’s habit of printing off any article he finds suspicious. The two doors on either side of the room make it feel even more like a storage space, and if she were to open the cabinets that line the far wall, she would find mostly her own supplies, with Mulder’s crowding the higher shelves that she has never bothered using. 

It’s comfortable though, and Scully leans against the windowsill, looking out the small window to the faculty parking lot as he tries to pry the vent cover off. The wheeled chair isn’t his best idea, and as he pulls something from the vent, the chair rolls backward suddenly, nearly knocking himself off. Instead he takes a steadying step onto the desk before he returns to ground level, still, of course, towering above her. 

He’s holding a file box, slightly smaller than standard size, with the school's name printed on the side in heavy red text. The humming noise seems to emanate from inside of it. Mulder sets it on the small desk, and sits in the wheeled chair, removing the lid. She settles on the desk, which is just high enough that, when she sits on it, her feet barely brush the ground. 

“This is from Krycek?” She asks as he removes the lid to the box. The humming grows louder, and light spills from the top of the box, faint blue pulsating, steady and routine. The humming, she realizes, crackles periodically. Hopefully not an alarm. It seems like something the gym coach would pass off. 

Mulder nods quickly, reaching into the box and pulling out several file folders, stacking them neatly next to her. Scully hopes this doesn’t end with Mulder and Krycek in Skinner’s office again. She really cannot take another school wide harassment seminar because the two of them can’t behave like normal adults. 

“All of the new students have files like this. Clean. Spotless. They’ve all gotten perfect grades, good test scores, no issues overall.” Scully doesn’t know where to begin -- probably with the stolen student files -- but Mulder has that fire to him, that deeply righteous certainty that he comes into sometimes. He continues, “And it’s like none of their parents existed before they got to school. I’m telling you, Scully, something’s going on.” 

It would be easy to argue with him, to reiterate that there is nothing supernatural going on, but at that moment, the hums from the box spike. And, embarrassingly enough, she finds that she is curious. 

“What’s the humming noise, Mulder?” She is almost afraid to ask. 

“The best motion sensor a teacher’s salary can buy.” He holds it up triumphantly, tapping it against his head twice before holding it out to her. She recognizes it as one half of a baby monitor. It hums louder suddenly, a gargled, static noise that makes her clench her teeth. A blue light blinks brightly from it every time the humming picks up. She is only too eager to hand it back to him. He uses it to motion to the door. “The camera is in the hall. You want to check out what’s setting it off?” 

The camera, it turns out, is pointed down the busiest hallway of their school, one hallway over from Scully and Mulder’s classrooms. At the end of the corridor, there’s the pair of bathrooms where Mulder says he hid the USB of proof that Krychek gave him. But that is not what causes Mulder to put his hand on Scully’s waist, stopping her from walking farther forward. He tugs her to the side of the hall, until they are pressed, side by side, against the wall and half-obscured behind lockers. There are noises coming from the boys’ room -- an unsteady scratching noise, made all the louder by the echoes of the bathroom. His hand stays on her waist.

“You hear that?” Mulder whispers. His breath tickles the top of her head. She does not mistake the note of delight in his voice, and she elbows him in the ribs, trying to remind him  _ not _ to smile right now. “That’s what’s making the sensors go off every night.” 

She tilts her head, trying to place where she’s heard the sound before. It is something almost familiar, like a taste left behind on your tongue. The scratching is not coming from any one place; it sounds like it is echoing all around in the bathroom. It picks up all at once, and it is not scratching at all. It is buzzing. 

“I need to see, Scully,” Mulder says. 

She realizes that he is about to do something very stupid in the same moment he does something very stupid. It happens quickly: Mulder takes off at a sprint toward the bathroom, sliding on the tiled floor as he enters the space. The few lights turned on in the hallway flicker once, twice, and plunge them into a darkness her eyes are only half-adjusted to. She remembers where she has heard to noise before. 

“Mulder!” 

She runs after him. 

He is frozen just inside the entrance of the boys’ bathroom, his mouth agape and his shoulders slack. She nearly runs into him, but she skids to a halt just in time, her hands pressing against his back. She does not need to see what he is looking at; she knows what it is. The scratching, the buzzing, the strange noises are coming from all around them. The bathroom makes it sound louder and more muffled. The bathroom makes it sound like a nightmare. It  _ is _ a nightmare -- the noise comes from everywhere, but the walls are moving too. She blinks, but it does not change. 

“I don’t think I’m getting that USB, Scully,” Mulder says, far more calm than he should be. 

She grabs his hand and yanks him backward, away from the bathroom. 

Away from the crawling wall of bees.

* * *

The new teacher is, perhaps, the worst part of this whole charade. Even Scully -- or, rather,  _ especially _ Scully -- finds him insufferable. Mr. Spender is fresh from college, rosy-cheeked and carrying no less than three teacher guides with him at any given moment. The Principal disappeared, the Vice Principal took over, and a new English teacher appeared. Mulder finds the whole thing laughably strange, but Scully doesn’t care as much about that. She cares about how  _ annoying _ Spender is. 

His room is directly across the hall from theirs, perfectly pristine and, he tells her,  _ going to stay that way. _ ( _ Sure kid _ , she thinks.  _ Just wait until you have a three foot tall stack of papers to grade, and then we’ll see whose classroom is pristine _ .) He wears full suits every day, even casual Friday, and when he talks to the other teachers, it is only to tell them how they might improve their classrooms based on the latest in Education research. Yes, he reminds her at least once a day. He has a Master’s degree. 

She thinks about strangling him. No, she  _ fantasizes _ about it, with an intensity that she should probably talk to her therapist about. Perhaps it is because of this that she turns the other way as Mulder’s classroom launches their warfare against Mr. Spender’s English class.

It is completely one sided. Mulder got one of his favorite students to share Spender’s syllabus, and suddenly, he’s scheduled a rousing game of “Find the Communist” at the same time the new English teacher has students hesitantly reading Shakespeare out loud. Another day, Mulder teaches his students to ambush by balling up all of the recycling in his  _ and  _ Scully’s classrooms, sending his tween troops into the English room to attack innocent students. There’s a meeting after that one: Mulder claims he’s teaching them about war crimes, and Spender’s red-faced and accusing him of  _ actual  _ war crimes. 

Scully’s favorite event is when she and Mulder have their grading period. In theory, she is grading the fat stack of biology tests that have been sitting on her end of the tiny desk for three weeks, and if you were to ask Mulder, he would say he is critiquing construction paper posters about famous leaders. In practice, Mulder is standing on the desk, trying to set off the smoke alarm with matches, and Scully is doing nothing to stop him. It’s a well-earned revenge: earlier that very day, Spender tore down a semester's worth of student work from the hall outside their classrooms because it made the hallway look  _ ‘childish’ _ and ‘ _ unprofessional _ .’ It’s almost like he’s completely forgotten they work at a middle school.

Mulder thinks the new teacher knows something about the grand mystery taking place at the middle school and so he presses onward in his attacks; Scully doesn’t think Spender knows a damn thing, but in truth, she doesn’t particularly care. Spender returns fire with vicious complaints and meeting after meeting with the Vice Principal. He even dares to send them both a lengthy email about curriculum and the legality of teaching ‘off the book.’ In her point of view, he deserves every inconvenience Mulder can throw at him. 

“I’ve never met an English teacher I like,” Mulder mutters after reading the latest of Spender’s email to her. He sits on the corner of her desk, extinguishing the last hope she had of grading papers. “Why is it so important to read the same six books?”

“They’re meant to tell us about the human condition,” Scully returns, although her heart is not in it. She is trying to think of an English teacher she has met that  _ she’s _ liked but is having a suspiciously difficult time. Somehow, she thinks, this is Mulder’s fault too. She can’t even  _ picture _ the last English teacher. “You know, that thing that composes all of life. It goes hand-in-hand with learning history. I would say it goes hand-in-hand with learning the sciences too.” 

The door swings open, hitting the wall with a violent noise and causing both teachers to jump to their feet. Scully grabs the stapler, holding it in her hands like she is ready to do battle with the person in the doorway -- and when she sees Krychek slinking into her room, slamming the door behind him, she still thinks she might. He runs over to her window, looking wildly around before drawing the blinds down. 

“I’m getting out of here,” Krychek says to neither of them. He is still pacing back and forth, in front of the window, occasionally peeking through the blinds. “He knows I told you, and I’m not risking my ass over  _ you _ .” 

“You’ve never risked your ass for anyone,” Mulder returns, carefully approaching the man. “--  _ Who _ knows?” 

Scully sets down her stapler. This is so far above her paygrade that she completely gives into the situation, taking a seat back at her desk. She picks up the next paper on her stack to grade. She picks up her red pen. 

“You’ve never seen the full picture,” Krychek hisses, finally turning to face Mulder. He looks wild, inconsolable. He looks more punchable than he ever has before. “Don’t you get it? Don’t you wonder what happened to the Principal? It’s going to happen to me next. Jesus! I never should have given you those damn files. I swear to God, Mulder -- Have you even stopped to think why Spender, a fresh graduate, replaced a tenured teacher?” 

Scully sets down her red pen. 

“Why did you give Mulder those files?” she asks, her voice too soft, too neutral, too careful. “And  _ what _ was on that flashdrive?” 

Something flickers across Krychek’s face. 

“I’m leaving,” Krychek answers. 

Mulder grabs him by the scruff of the neck and gives him a firm shake. “What’s going on here?” 

But Krychek is slippery. Mulder loves to call him  _ ratboy _ , as if the gym teacher scutters amongst trash with glee; Scully thinks he is far closer to an eel, able to pull away to the shadows easily, not of necessity so much as the want of darkness. She hates eels. She  _ really  _ hates eels. And sure enough, Krychek slips from Mulder’s grasp easily, flashing something between a grin and a grimace. In only a few short bounds, he rushes from the classroom, leaving the door open behind him.

From across the hall, Spender watches. He writes something down. 

“I know you don’t want to,” Scully says. Mulder still has his arm stretched out, like he might hold onto Krychek’s shadow. “But we should talk to Skinner about this.”

* * *

Sometimes Scully worries that Skinner doesn’t have any friends. Well, most of the time she worries about this. He spends so much time at Hoover, so many hours in his office, and with the two of them, that she genuinely worries that if she didn’t invite him out with her and Mulder on the first Friday of each month, he wouldn’t get out at all. 

It’s the second Friday of the month, but she texted him twice yesterday, once with three exclamation points, to invite him over to her tiny condo for dinner. Mulder has been sitting on her couch eating all of her pretzels and watching some History Channel program while she pulls a premade lasagna out of the oven. 

When there’s a knock on the door, Mulder yells that he actually invited Krycek, and for a moment, she almost believes him, but it’s only Skinner, holding a bottle of his favorite red wine, still wearing his usual button down but without a tie. She invites him in, and the three of them settle in the large living / dining room area. There’s a big couch, a bigger television, and a mediocre dining table, small and ugly with three mismatched chairs. 

She corrals them to the table, turning off the program Mulder was watching with only some protest. They pour wine, and Scully serves slightly overcooked lasagna. They do this sometimes: eat shitty food and talk about nothing. Mulder knows how to start a conversation, and Scully knows what to ask. It works especially well when they are looking for answers.

Skinner catches on faster than she thought he would, and sets down his fork, looking across the table at the two of them, Scully in the corner and Mulder next to her. Their shoulders are pushed together, almost no space between them but she hardly notices -- Skinner is giving her that look he gave her when she told him about Diana last year. Like he knows something that she refuses to acknowledge. His expression makes Scully more self-conscious than anything else would, and she shifts away from Mulder, like the additional space might make Skinner turn his attention back to his own plate instead. 

Scully studies Skinner a moment longer before turning to meet Mulder’s gaze, and it’s not the first time she’s caught him staring at her, not even the first time today, but Scully still feels her cheeks warm lightly. She narrows her eyes at him, and he grins, the gesture broad and bold, before lifting a bite of pasta to his mouth, their eyes still locked and-- 

Skinner clears his throat, and Scully almost flinches. 

“How did last week go, Mulder?” Skinner asks, just a little too loudly, his voice echoing -- he’s never really understood appropriate usage of volume when speaking to his coworkers, specifically with Mulder, Krycek, and the nineteen year old janitor who shows up high to his 3:00 to 9:00 PM shift. “I know you lost your junior student teacher, and I know how grading can pile up after the loss of that second set of hands.” He’s almost smiling, although not quite, but Mulder grins in response.

“Oh, I never have Alice grade anything,” he says, taking a huge bite of garlic bread. “You can’t tell a tenth grader that all a teacher does is grade. Alice  _ wants _ to be a teacher.” A few little flecks of food spew out of his mouth, and Scully leans away instinctually. He finishes chewing before speaking again, “I had her look at my curriculum and brainstorm ideas with me to help connect better with the students I have right now, like a cultural interpreter,” he finishes, taking another bite of lasagna. 

Scully laughs, perhaps a bit too fondly. She knows Mulder; he doesn’t get youth culture. Even when she started and he was just a couple years older than her, he knew nothing of current youth culture. He invited her to go skateboarding once in an attempt to bond. But he  _ tries _ , he listens to the kids, to his junior student teacher, who taught him about important things like content farms and the best vines. 

“Maybe we should swap next time,” Scully says. “Edgar -- Edgar Garcia, the short kid from a few years back who tried to strap a brick to a bundle of bottle rockets at recess -- he’s helping with our chemistry lab. The kids are going to make different kinds of chemical reactions, and I caught him trying to steal some hydrogen peroxide. I don’t think he knew what he was doing.” She takes a breath and a drink of Skinner’s wine choice. It’s thick and coats her mouth. “He could’ve taught you a lot, Mulder,” she smirks. 

“You know what I miss?” Mulder asks, and she knows where this is heading. They didn’t rehearse it, but she still sees the question coming. “Speaking of teaching me a lot,” he adds in, like the connection between the two threads of conversation makes sense. “Professional development workshops.” It is a bold lie from someone who has not attended a professional development workshop in three years. “Who organizes those, Scully?” 

“The Principal,” she answers.

“The Principal, that’s right,” he returns. He looks at her pointedly. She lets out a sigh. She wonders, in this scenario, who is the good cop and who is the bad one. 

“Do you know when he’ll be back?” She turns her attention back to Skinner. Her voice is careful curiosity. “I don’t think Mulder’s the only one who would benefit from some training. There’s Spender too. I don’t think he’s been to one before.” 

“Miss Scully,” Skinner begins. He always addresses her like this, like they’ve just met for the first time at a conference and not like he’s eating lasagna in her dining room. “This is something I would have expected from Mr. Mulder, not you.” He sounds almost disappointed, and for the first time, Scully feels a curl of shame in her stomach. He was always good at this: at making them feel like they are being scolded even when they are outside the school. “If you have something to ask me, just ask.” 

“Yeah, Scully,” Mulder says, grinning that shit-eating grin he always saves just for her. “What questions do you have for the Dean?” 

“Coach Krychek came into my classroom yesterday,” she begins carefully, setting down her fork. Mulder is the only one still eating, leaning back in his chair like he’s at peace with all the world. She kicks him under the table, but it doesn’t stop him. “He had some interesting things to say -- ranting about… Well, about a conspiracy.”

“He sounded almost like me,” Mulder says cheerfully.

“A conspiracy,” Skinner repeats flatly.

“I know how it sounds,” Scully says, knowing  _ exactly _ how it sounds. “But he raised some interesting questions.” She takes a deep breath, and her tone becomes steady, certain, demanding. “We want to know what happened to the Principal.” 

Mulder finally stops eating. He is looking at her, with something in his expression -- a soft kind of pride, perhaps.

“And here I thought you two wanted to have dinner,” Skinner mutters. “Do you think I’m privy to what sort of vacation the Principal has taken? Contrary to popular belief, he doesn’t send us emails with pictures of him on the beach.”

“He’s on vacation?” Scully says.

At the same time, Mulder says, “You expect us to believe he’s on vacation?”

“I don’t expect you to  _ believe _ anything,” Skinner continues, only slightly exasperated. “Where else would he be?” 

“We were told Krychek also went on vacation,” Mulder says. He is leaning forward now, his hands clutching the edges of the table. Scully rests her hand on his shoulder, not sure why she is comforting him. “But he made it clear to us that he was leaving. That someone was forcing him out. How do we know the same thing didn’t happen to the Principal?” 

“I  _ am _ telling you what happened to the Principal, Mr. Mulder.” Skinner stands up from his seat, picking up his half-finished plate. He knows where the dishes go, where the tupperware is. He places his leftovers in a container and loads his dishes in the dishwasher. All the while, icy silence follows him; all the while, Mulder glares at his back. 

Scully kicks at Mulder’s ankle again as the silence extends across the room. The sink runs in the kitchen as Mulder turns towards her. He makes that ‘ _ how is this my fault _ ’ face, and she glares pointedly at the kitchen doorway. He makes a show of rolling his eyes and ducks his head close to hers. They are half-muttering, half-whispering to each other -- a back and forth of where the fault lies, with Mulder insisting that he has never done anything wrong in his life and Scully listing off everything he has ever done wrong in his life -- when the sink turns off. Scully has to cover Mulder’s mouth with her hand to get him to finally stop talking, nodding with her head in Skinner’s direction. She lets out a yelp when he licks her palm, but Skinner doesn’t seem to notice. 

Finally, Skinner leans against the counter, tipping his head back. “The Principal is on vacation. He’ll return soon. And, in the meantime, the Vice Principal is in charge. That is our boss -- all of us. If you want to keep your jobs, I highly recommend you set aside whatever conspiracy you think is taking place and focus on what you are getting paid to do.” He throws a look at Scully. “Especially you, Miss Scully.” 

Mulder stands up abruptly, but Skinner is already making his way toward the door. 

“Thanks for the dinner,” he says, almost sadly, and walks out the door. 

* * *

Skinner waits in the Vice Principal’s office for too long. Their meeting had been scheduled for 45 minutes prior, but instead of giving up, Skinner waits. He has memorized the startlingly blank walls and counted the ceiling tiles twice before the Vice Principal finally shows up. And even then, Skinner continues standing in the corner of the room, his lips pressed together and his hands folded behind his back. For all that he admonished Scully and Mulder, he actually agrees with them; the uncertainty of what it might mean keeps his back straight and his senses on high alert. 

He does not trust the Vice Principal. The Vice Principal knows this. 

“Mr. Skinner,” the Vice Principal says, his voice dry. He does not bother to apologize. Skinner doubts he has ever apologized. 

“Sir,” Skinner nods. 

The Vice Principal walks over to his desk but does not take a seat. His back remains to Skinner, and he looks out the wide windows toward the front of J. Edgar Hoover Middle School. There is pruned greenery and a parking lot that is too big. A woman walks her dog past the school. The street is otherwise silent. 

“What an important day for us,” the Vice Principal says to himself. 

“Sir, I just spoke to two of my teachers,” Skinner continues. He does not like the feeling that comes over him -- the feeling that he is out of the loop, that he does not know what the other man knows. “They have some concerns over the Principal. Frankly, so do I. No one has seen or heard from him for a month.”

“He is on vacation.” The words are quiet. 

“Where at?” 

“Where would  _ you _ like to go, Mr. Skinner?” The Vice Principal smiles, and Skinner only knows this because he can hear the gesture -- the skin pulling over teeth. “Coach Krychek just took a vacation too. It is that time of year, I understand. And isn’t it best to use all that vacation time?” 

The words are a warning. 

“I’m happy where I am,” Skinner returns, clutching his hands tighter.

The Vice Principal finally turns toward Skinner but not to face him. He opens his desk drawer instead, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. To Skinner’s astonishment, he pulls one out and lights it, taking a deep puff. The smoke curls up and up, disappearing as it hits the ceiling. Where there should be a smoke detector, there are only disconnected wires. The Vice Principal’s entire body seems to relax with the cigarette. 

“If you have any concerns about the seventh grade teachers,” the Vice Principal says, the thick scent clinging to his words. “I would recommend working through them with the teachers themselves. Mr. Spender, I hear, is a tremendous addition to the team. He will go far, if we let him.”

Skinner can’t help himself. He has to ask. “And what about Mr. Mulder and Miss Scully?” 

The Vice Principal expression twists into a smile. “Let them continue their work, Mr. Skinner.” 


End file.
